No means no

Here's the problem with being "pathologically friendly" (a moniker Jeff gave me many moons ago):  People tend to remember you.  And that can get you into trouble.

Last weekend Jeff noticed a small tear in the convertible top of my beloved 12-year-old car.  It's a tiny tear in the very top layer of the canvas, but Jeff wanted to get it checked out ASAP to stop it from spreading.  He took it to the auto upholstery guy who installed the top for us five years ago and the technician took one look at it and said "I told her not to take it through the car wash."  Yep - not only did he remember me from when I had the top installed in 2007, but he remembered our exact conversation.  And he freaking told on me!!!  Dirty rat.  Nobody likes a snitch!

The good news is that they serviced the top for free (but we'll still have to replace it in the next year or so).  The bad news is that Jeff came home and read me the riot act for not telling him that I had been warned not to go to the car wash (which I visit quite frequently) and for "ruining" the top.

In my defense, when the top was new I asked the installer if I could take it through the car wash and he said "I wouldn't do it if it were my car".  That is *not* the same as telling me that the car wash would damage the top.  The correct answer to my question would have been "no".  What he gave me was a vague warning that it might not be a good idea.  Do you know how many vague warnings I get every day?  Tons.  Most of the things I do are "not a good idea".  Doesn't mean they're going to cost me $1,500 (which is how much a new convertible top costs).

Clearly this is not my fault.

The best part of the story is that the loaner car they gave Jeff to drive while they worked on my car was a Mini Cooper.  I would have paid cold, hard cash to see his 6'2" self driving around in a Mini, but he was too pissed at me to drive it to my office so I could mock him.  Guess he doesn't share my affinity for the ridiculous.

Teenagers: Not as Dumb as You Think They Are

One of the benefits of being married to a "car guy" is that our cars last us forever.  Thanks to Jeff, I drove a 1990 Nissan Stanza until it had 300,000 miles on it and the insurance company told us they'd no longer cover it after a very minor fender-bender.  Awesome car, by the way.

My current ride is a 2000 Toyota convertible which Jeff refers to as my "car for life" (he's not joking).  Jeff keeps it in pristine condition.  It looks & drives like it just came off the showroom floor and the mileages is still relatively low, so it'll be my ride for many years to come. It's in such good shape that the Toyota dealer tries to buy it from us every time we take it in for service.  And while I love my car, sometimes I have visions of something a little...newer.  Sadly, we replace cars on a need-basis only in our family, and my "need" is way off over the horizon.

I had a glimmer of hope when my 15-year-old stepson, Aaron, approached me about the possibility of "inheriting" my car when he turns 16.  Visions of hard-top convertibles danced in my head!  All we had to do was convince Jeff that it was a good idea.

I approached Jeff with the topic, and Jeff replied that we should offer Aaron our spare car (a 1997 Nissan Pathfinder with 250,000 miles on it that we refer to as "Boomer's Car" because it's the only car our Great Dane fits in).  I countered that Aaron needed something more reliable and we'd never be able to get Boomer to the vet without the Pathfinder.  It was a convincing argument, but Jeff said that he thought Aaron would prefer the SUV (which I knew wasn't true) so we should give him a choice.

Woo Frigging Hoo, people!  I was about to hand off my 12-year-old ride for a better, faster, stronger "car for life"!  I started browsing websites for my new (used) car.

The next time Jeff visited Aaron in North Carolina, he made the offer that Aaron could choose from our cars.

Aaron's response?  "Thanks, Dad!  I'll take your Maxima."

DAMMIT.  Car for life, indeed.

Reversal of Trash Fortune (AKA: words I'll always regret saying)

I’ve been kind of overwhelmed the past couple of months.  I had a family emergency that’s taken up most of my time and I’ve basically been at the point that I just can’t handle one more single thing.

Enter one more single thing... 

While I was out dealing with said family emergency, I decided to make a quick stop at Taco Bell on the way between crisis management appointments and work to pick up a drive-through lunch.  Because nothing says home cooking like 35% beef mixed with “other ingredients”.   

So there I am, sitting at the bottom of the I-985 exit ramp waiting to make a right on red to get to Taco Bell, when WHAM!!!  A high school kid in a brand new Jeep nails my beloved old convertible right in the rear. Insert “taking it in the rear” joke here.  The police eventually arrived, only to inform me that the hitter had questionable immigration status and even more questionable car insurance.   Awesome.  Note to self: How come a 17-year-old potentially-undocumented immigrant has a nicer car than I do? 

I finally got back to the office and started wrangling with the high school hitter’s insurance company about getting the repairs covered.  Fast forward two full weeks and the insurance co. is still tap dancing around with the requisite bullshit:  New policy.  Driver not covered.   Police report not ready. Insured party won’t return calls. Insured party won’t answer certified letter.  Insured party won’t answer door.  Blah Blah Blah. 

Now I’m dealing with a family emergency and driving around in a ghetto looking car with a smacked up rear bumper and a tail light hanging on by two slim wires and a prayer, which may or may not be covered by the guilty party’s insurance company.  It was literally more than I could handle (and I don’t use those words lightly – I’m usually a Ninja Warrior in a crisis situation). 

Naturally, I whined to Jeff about how I’m just going to start walking everywhere I go because I can’t be bothered with working with the sketchy insurance company to get my car fixed while I’m dealing with family issues and an office workload that seems to double every day. Cue violins for my pitiful situation. 

Jeff, in his infinite wisdom, says “I don’t mean to make things worse, but we’ve only got a month until you birthday and we need to get the emissions done so we can renew your tag. Oh, and since your current tag is damaged we can’t renew online.  We’ll have to go to the DMV and wait in line to get a new one.”  That’s two more single things, people.  Possibly three.

My response?  “I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about cars.  EVER.  Can you please just handle everything?”  He got a little smile on his face, and without a second thought he said he’d take care of it.  I should have noticed that he agreed a little too easily, but I kind of thought may be he was just happy to have an opportunity to take care of me.  Sometimes I can be so stupid!

Anyway, I picked up the keys to our spare car (a trusty 1997 Nissan Pathfinder, with damn near a quarter-million miles on it), and went about my business while he handled the insurance battle and car repair (which took 6 more weeks plus repair time, by the way).

About half way through the repair process I came home one night after work and noticed subtle changes in our driveway.  First, I saw large oil stains along the drive.  Based on my years with Jeff I know this is a sure sign of a tow truck visit.   Also based on my history with Jeff, I know that tow trucks only come to our property to make deliveries.  Because I’m not lucky enough to have anything hauled away.  Next, I noticed that the Ford truck under the truck cover at the end of the drive appeared to be substantially shorter than the truck that was in the same spot when I left for work in the morning.

People, contrary to popular belief, I am not a moron.  A switcheroo had taken place behind my back.  Total.  Marriage. Foul.  The penalties would be swift.

I entered the house, walked right up to Jeff and here’s what transpired:

LAB: “What’s under the truck cover?”

Jeff: “A 1971 Ford F-100, same as always.”

LAB: “You sure that’s what you’re going with?  I know it’s a different truck because the one parked in the driveway doesn’t have an 8-foot bed.” See how observant I am!  Nothing gets past me!

Jeff:  “Well it’s not the *same* truck, but it’s a Ford F-100.”

LAB: “Uh huh.  Where did this mysteriously different Ford F-100 come from?”

Jeff: “I had it towed in.  For parts.”

LAB: “Uh huh. Where’s the other truck?”

Jeff: “I rented a parking spot for it at the storage place around the corner.  It’s just for 30 days, so I can strip it of the parts I need and bring the other one back.”

LAB: “Uh huh.”

Jeff: “What?”

LAB: “Seriously?  You bought another parts car after we just got rid of that piece of crap LTD you bought for parts?”

Jeff: “Of course.  The LTD had already been stripped. What’s the problem?”

LAB: “You brought another piece of shit car in here without telling me!  I thought we agreed: talk first, buy later.”

And here it comes people.  The zinger:

Jeff: “You told me that you didn’t want to hear another goddamn word about cars, remember?  As I recall, you also added the word EVER.” 

Touché, Jeff.  You win this one.

I know what you guys are thinking:  LAB, you make this shit up just to amuse yourself.

Nope.  Not only did he tow in a complete POS truck, but it’s full of tires & trash.  Which I hope didn’t cost extra.  Behold our new acquisition!

 Here's the proud owner, taking his own photos of his new pride & joy:

 Ain't she a beauty?

 And complete with bald, dead, smelly tires in the cab!

 Not sure where the trash ends and the truck begins:

I was smart enough not to ask Jeff how much he paid for this fine item. Although I was seriously tempted to ask him if he back charged the previous owner for trash removal.  I totally brought this one on myself.  Won't happen again.

Think before you speak, Jackass!

Yesterday I posted this picture on Facebook and bitched about how tacky this "car" (and I use the term very loosely) looks in our driveway:

Jeff bought this ridiculous 1969 Ford LTD to strip out the engine and transmission and then scrap the remaining car.  The fact that it's a temporary addition to our collection and that he keeps it under a car cover and out of sight when he's not working on it doesn't make it any more palatable to me.  Our house has officially turned into Sanford & Son.

So last night I'm bitching to him about what the neighbors must think of us (as if their opinions aren't already firmly in place) and how trashy we are to have 5 cars scattered around our property.

Jeff's response?  "We have 6 cars. Don't forget the one in storage".

Thanks for the reminder, Jack Ass.  Have I mentioned how lucky he is that I love him?